


Far From Eden

by IDreamtOfManderleyAgain



Category: Hellraiser (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Conspiracies, F/M, Mysteries, Structurally a Gothic Romance, Trauma, Trust Issues, currently fully plotted out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2019-07-20 17:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16142123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IDreamtOfManderleyAgain/pseuds/IDreamtOfManderleyAgain
Summary: Kirsty Cotton saved a man by breaking a monster. Now together they must survive a prison of eternal night - and find a way to live with the consequences of their actions.An H2-Divergent tale where a lost and frightened girl is trapped in a Labyrinth, and a monster is burdened with the heart of a man.





	1. Without The Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This story is inspired by the ending of InkWorthy’s “Countdown” on FF.Net. I’ve always wanted to see a story that explores how Kirsty might survive the horrors of Hell in the vein of a Persephone or Beauty and the Beast tale. This is my take on the concept. Unlike Roses For the Abyss, this story is not as of yet plotted out, and is more of a self-indulgent piece for when I’m not working on Roses - meaning I have no idea where it’s even going. Have fun!

**Far From Eden**

 

_“Like the wild beasts, she lives without a future._

_She inhabits only the present tense, a fugue of the continuous,_

_a world of sensual immediacy as without hope as it is without despair.”_

_―_ _Angela Carter_

 

**Chapter One:**

**Without The Sunlight**

 

The abomination that had become of Channard continued to bellow his threats as Kirsty huddled protectively in front of Tiffany. She would not let him lay a hand on the girl, not anymore.

 

**“You girls will be my first patients!”**

 

He slurred the words maniacally, barely coherent through his freshly mutilated jaw. Kirsty didn’t know what else to do now. There was no escape left for them. There was only the monsters, the endless darkness surrounding them, and her.

 

She knew now that she was going to die protecting Tiffany, and that it would be in vain. She felt hot tears sear the chilled skin of her face.

 

Then it seemed like everything came to a very strange stand-still. Channard did not move from his place in the threshold, and the Priest himself refused to budge. He was regarding the doctor strangely, as if he had absorbed these threats of violence in a very different way than before. Kirsty found him looking back at her, and caught his gaze with confusion. Twice he did this, listening to Channard’s terrible promises and turning to look back at her, a frown upon his typically stoic face.

  


Then determination seemed to overcome him, and he turned a furious gaze to Channard, dropping the photo she had given him. The doctor sneered at this, recognizing a challenge.

 

**“Ah. Good. A fight!”**

 

Kirsty looked on, stricken. Was the Priest trying to protect her and Tiffany, or was he simply taking down a rival challenging his leadership?

 

The Priest lifted his hands and sent his malevolent chains in Channard’s direction. Chain after chain bombarded the doctor, hooking themselves into his pallid, leathery flesh. Channard snarled and growled at every blow, until finally the Priest decided he had sufficiently covered the monster.

 

Then the rending began. The chains began to pull, tearing piece after piece of skin and meat from the howling abomination, leaving strips of viscous burgundy clashing violently against pale blue. These creatures thrived upon their suffering however, and his body was still plenty intact. Channard was not done yet. Gored as he was, he still had the strength to fight back. A deadly tentacle shot out, and violently pierced the throat of the female cenobite. Wide-eyed, she gave a wet choke, then fell to the floor.

 

The Priest was displeased. **“I do not abide mindless insolence.”**

 

More chains returned to the doctor, binding him and holding him still. The Priest then pulled a curved blade from his waist and advanced on Channard. His hand shot out and grasped the arm that shot the projectile at the female. The Priest then swiftly executed a clean cut straight through the flesh and bone of Channard’s wrist, removing the offending hand as deftly as a butcher separating a chicken thigh. Kirsty cringed as she heard the wet gristle crack before Channard let out a rageful wail, his red blood gushing violently from the wound. The Priest threw the still-twitching limb to the ground before him.

 

Channard's gasps for breath became a throaty laugh however, as up from the bloody wrist grew more slimy black tentacles, larger than the ones that came from the now dislocated hand. A scalpel formed itself at the tip of one, and then the doctor lashed it out at the Priest. He side-stepped but it was a successful hit, slashing his arm through his leather. The Priest reacted with no more than a sneer, shaking the blood from his arm uncaringly.

 

Then the still-bound Channard sent more tentacles towards the remaining creatures, taking each being down quickly. The girls watched in horror, unsure of the outcome for their could-be allies or themselves in the aftermath. Now it was only the Priest who stood in their possible defence. The doctor laughed with triumph, then vindictively turned his attention to the girls the Priest seemed to be protecting.

 

Channard darted several scalpel-equipped tentacles in their direction. Kirsty let out a short screech as she pushed Tiffany to the left and quickly jumped with her. The tentacles hit the wall that was behind them with a squelch, then dropped to the floor. The disgusting things then writhed their way towards Kirsty, who promptly kicked them out into the dark corner of the room. She could hear another squelch, then nothing. She looked back to the Priest, who had been watching the scene.

 

The Priest seemed to deliberate momentarily on what to do next, then with a haughty, bored look at Channard, he waved a hand at the dark expanse. Suddenly, two massive, threatening pendulum axes swung from the shadowed abyss above them towards the doctor, the edges gleaming with the sinister blue ambient light. The startled girls instinctively ducked to the floor, although the trajectory of the blades was far from where they huddled in the dark. With a great _whoosh_ , the blades swung closer and closer, until finally they hit his writhing form with a loud _thwack._ They cut deep into his upper torso, likely puncturing a lung and severing much of his shoulder blades. The doctor let out a pathetic yowl, and Kirsty knew he was defeated. He gasped desperately for air, and then a dark gurgle of blood frothed up from his mouth.

 

 **“...I...am not finished with this procedure…!”** The doctor’s rage was mounting. His mangled body was trembling with as much anger as weakness. The fleshy tentacle attached to his skull was the only thing keeping him prone; he seemed to hang from it now like a twitching rag doll. He bared his bloodied teeth at the Priest, who stood in silent, proud satisfaction at his handiwork.

 

Then the Priest turned to Kirsty, catching her gaze with his own. There was a strange sort of human warmth softening the black ice of his eyes when he looked at her. That was when Kirsty fully realized the meaning of the situation. He _had_ intended to defend her. A terrible, heart wrenching relief fell over her, so intensely that she felt fresh tears well up in her eyes. She had succeeded. He remembered being the man from her dream. _He didn’t want her to be hurt._ Kirsty found herself smiling despite her tears, a sudden shock of warmth in her heart for the monster that by some stroke of luck she saved, the monster who most certainly just saved _her._ She couldn’t speak through the fear and overwhelming relief, but she hoped the smile on her face conveyed the gratitude she felt.

 

He nodded to her, and she recognised the suggestion to run. Now that her and Tiffany were shifted further into the room, she could see a hallway back into the Labyrinth a bit further down the closest wall. She gently pushed Tiffany toward it, and they quickly started to run to the threshold.

 

**“You have not been discharged!”**

 

Kirsty felt nothing but white hot pain. She knew Channard was laughing behind her, but the sound seemed so far away from her now. Tiffany was looking at her, wide-eyed and crying. Kirsty felt her knees give out.

 

On the floor now, Kirsty looked down at herself, and with a kind of dazed horror found a writhing black tentacle pierced straight through her left shoulder. Though her vision was watery and out of focus, she could see the shiny little medical blade on the wriggling end. Frantic, she grabbed at the bit of tentacle sticking out, careful to avoid the scalpel. Then she began to yank, gasping and desperate to remove the convulsing, revolting parasitic limb from herself.

 

Finally the thing gave way. It slid sickly and still squirming through the wet flesh of her body, making her stomach roil and her heart burn with absolute revulsion. She was equally horrified by the satisfying feeling of _relief_ of the removal. She violently threw the appendage as far away from her into the dark as possible, then pitched forward on her right hand to dry-heave. After it passed, she sat there and let out a loud, mournful sob.

 

Tiffany still stood in front of her, terrified and waiting. Kirsty could hear the whip of chains and angry screams from Channard. She hurried to look back at the scene behind them, but was too late to defend herself when Channard sent out another tentacle in her direction. The thing struck through the soft, fragile side of her abdomen. She wailed in shock and agony, feeling the thing writhe near her fragile organs.

 

She was going to die. She was sure of it. Gasping for breath and gritting her teeth against the pain, she lifted her gaze back to Tiffany. The little girl was sobbing now, distraught.

 

“T...Tiffany...it’s...please, just...go...run…” She stopped to catch her breath, whimpering as the thing in her side moved. Tiffany hesitated, but Kirsty heard the doctor laugh again. “Tiffany GO!” She screamed in frustration, fighting the urge to pass out.

 

Tiffany seemed to get the picture. The faintest whisper of “goodbye” left her mouth as she cried, and then she turned and ran down the corridor.

 

Kirsty let out a sigh of relief. She was going to die in this pit, but at least one innocent might make it. She tried her best to grasp the disgusting appendage that stuck out of her belly, but her grip was slackening and the blood drenching her hands slickened what little traction she might have had. She tightened her hands around the thing and gave a great pull, until finally with a screech she dislodged it and threw it too into the dark.

 

Exhausted and wracked with unimaginable pain, Kirsty let her body go slack against the cold stone floor. She didn’t have the strength to run anymore. Her body was already starting to bleed out; she lay in an ever-growing puddle. So she turned her head with the last strength she had, intent on watching the fight so that she might at least see the bastard who killed her die, too.

 

The Priest, normally stoic and collected, was now a fury of expert violence. He was ripping chains from the remainder of Channard’s torn body _by hand._ Channard’s torso was mostly a mess of bloodied bits covering a half-exposed ribcage, the stringy muscle of his arms hanging off the bone. Finally the Priest took the little hooked blade from his side and jammed it deep into the doctor’s throat, ripping out tendons on the pull-back. Strangely, Kirsty noticed a spurt of foreign blue liquid burst from a vein.

 

Suddenly, the monstrous tentacle that held Channard aloft started to slacken, lowering the groaning carcass to the floor. It gave a little whirr and detached it’s bio-mechanical drill from the doctor’s skull, leaving behind a mess of blood and shredded brain matter on the floor. Then it hen slowly slithered off down the dark corridor behind it.

 

A bitter relief came over Kirsty. Channard, or whatever had become of him, was as dead as a thing could be in this place.

 

The Priest took a moment to look at the fallen bodies of his comrades. Then he turned to look at her, his black eyes a silent storm of unplaceable emotion. He stood there, quiet. She looked back at him just as silent, her sight fading in and out now.

 

He then walked towards her, and stopped right before where she lay. She looked up at him, blinking to try and clear her vision. Then she smirked at him, and took a shuddering breath.

 

“There’s...something ironic about this...but I can’t quite...put my finger on it.” She let out a raspy little chuckle.

 

The slightest upturn appeared at the corner of his mouth.

 

Then he leaned down and carefully lifted her broken body into his arms, startling her into a gasp. The unexpected move gave her brain a jolt, bringing back a little more awareness to her mind. Leaving the bodies of his group behind, he began a smooth gait down the corridor, holding Kirsty firm before him.

 

The moment was something totally alien to Kirsty. She felt out of her own body, like she seeing herself from the outside; some damsel on the lurid cover of a hammer horror poster being carried off by a monster.

 

She wasn’t sure what to say. The Priest himself said nothing, only continued on his trek through the Labyrinth’s disorienting dark hallways. This journey seemed to take some amount of time, though she only had vague awareness of it through her hazy brain. Occasionally, she could hear her blood drip and spatter the stone below. Other times she would hear strange, foreign sounds faintly echo through the passageways like ghosts in the night. She was unsure where the Priest was taking her, but she hoped against the odds that it meant her survival.

 

It was strange, accepting that her life was in the hands of another, let alone the monster that once threatened it. It had been so very long since she could rely on anyone. Her father, bless his soul, was always too fragile; a loving parent but ultimately a weak one. A protective anxiety over him had long ago developed in her after her mother’s death, emerging far too soon than it should in her short twenty years of life. Boyfriends were so often insipid children, eager to blindly take from her but unwilling to offer anything truly substantial in return. Steve’s speedy abandonment was plenty evidence of this. Kyle seemed to want to try, but the poor fool was dead quickly enough.

 

This otherworldly, terrible being was certainly far from fragile. He had chosen not to abandon her. He had protected her, and now it seemed he was even... _taking care of her_ in some strange way, which was admittedly more than she could really say for anyone else in her life.

 

Letting him take things over now was almost... _nice_.

 

She didn’t have to think anymore, didn’t have to fight for survival. The unlikely formation of _trust_ in him was throwing her dazed mind for a loop. Does blood loss make you delirious?

 

But he said he _remembered._ He remembered his past, and perhaps with it came some residual shreds of a soul, enough to _change his motives completely_ in one fell swoop.

 

She supposed it might really be alright now, if she didn’t bleed out completely on the way to wherever it was he intended to take her.

 

Then there came a loud, overwhelming screech, startling her from her thoughts and bellowing so deep even the stone around them shook. The Priest did not stop or acknowledge this noise. Kirsty’s muscles had jumped reflexively, and then she huddled closer to her unlikely ally despite herself.

 

“What was that?” she whispered.

 

**“Tiffany has escaped.”**

 

Kirsty was relieved, but then a sinking feeling of dread came over her.

 

“She would have had to...solve the box wouldn’t she? Then...she probably took it with her. Does...does that mean _I_ can’t leave?” She was struggling to speak, but her life hinged on the answer to that question.

 

The Priest said nothing, merely continued to walk. His silence seemed to confirm the terrible truth.

 

“It does, doesn’t it. How...How long will I be trapped here? Is this...forever?” She held her breath.

 

He caught her eyes.

 

**“Until the door is opened once more.”**

* * *

 

  
  
  
  



	2. Dark Oasis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this shameless gothic cheese.

 

She became aware of an incredible pain.

 

Gasping awake, Kirsty shot up on her arms and immediately regretted the harsh movement. She cried out as the wounds she now remembered protested violently. Almost as quickly as she sat up, her left arm gave out underneath her, causing her upper body to fall to the hard, cold surface she had been lying against. A high-pitched squeal left her throat at the impact, and tears quickly filled her eyes.

 

Catching hold of her bearings, Kirsty took stock. The room was cold; an expanse of barren grey stone broken only by the torchlight and looming black double doors behind the head of the table. Her coat and shirt had been removed, though she had been afforded the modesty of her now-bloodstained bra. The bared skin of her torso was caked with dry and flaking blood. She was lying upon a table made of of dark grey marble which was edged with elegantly carved ebony, complete with several matching chairs surrounding it. Underneath her was a cold, sticky pool of more blood that had dripped off the side some time ago, the liquid too copious to have dried with what remained on her front side.

 

Her wounds had been stitched.

 

How could she have survived those wounds, let alone the intense blood-loss? How long had she been unconscious?

 

Carefully now, Kirsty sat up once more, mindful of her damaged body. She shifted until her calves hung over the side of the massive marble table, and then tentatively Kirsty put her weight upon her feet. She held tightly to the edge for stability. Initially the shift in gravity was hell on her wounds, particularly the one in her side. The intense swell of pain coupled with the rush of blood made her stomach queasy and her vision blurry, but given a few moments the intensity subsided and she felt stable enough to continue.

 

There was a distinct unlikelihood that Hell had any understanding or respect for painkillers.

 

Slowly Kirsty made her way to the double doors, grasping the backs of chairs along the way. Finally she stood before the exit, and took hold of the aged brass handle. It took strength she did not have to shift the heavy door open, and the thing gave a low creak that spoke of it’s age. She managed to get it open enough to shift her body through.

 

Taking a peek into the next room, she saw what looked to be a kind of study; a cavernous space that overwhelmed her meager apartment in the human world. The decor however was as functional and sparse as the room prior, and just as gothically ornate. To her right there was another set of dark ebony doors, the same as the one she currently stood behind. Against the wall to the left of those doors she found a dark desk and chair that matched the design of the table she had been left on. Upon it sat several lit candles, old melted wax sealing them to the back corner and forming dripping stalactites off the left side. There was also a stack of parchment-like paper as well as an old fountain-style pen and inkwell.

 

At the center of the left side of the room there was a large black leather settee, complete with a smaller marble table which was bare. This furniture sat atop a weathered burgundy rug. The ornate designs in the rug were interrupted by old stains of an even darker brown-burgundy. She did not bother to speculate on the origins of the discoloration.

 

Finally, behind this furniture was the very back wall of the room, and displayed upon that wall there were endless gleaming instruments of torture. Knives upon knives, hooks and barbs and curved blades, sharp, sinister shapes that she could not name. Kirsty felt her stomach drop and the nausea of before build in the pit of it. Many of these items were totally foreign to Kirsty, and the ambiguity of their usage and methods made them all the more distressing to look at. She tore her eyes away from them, and noticed that the corner between her wall and the back was shrouded in darkness, and covered in many chains which hung intricately between eyehooks embedded into the stone walls. It felt as though something was meant to be there that was not currently. She could almost imagine the space occupying some sarcophagus, suit of medieval armor, or perhaps even more appropriately an iron maiden.

 

This room was as devoid of life as the one she’d woken in.

 

Where was the Priest? Were these his...rooms?

 

She left the ‘safety’ of the threshold, and stepped hesitantly into the strange...study. Looking around herself, she gathered the courage to call out.

 

“...Hello?”

 

Silence.

 

“....p..Priest?” She did not know what to call him. She wasn’t entirely sure her assumption of a priest role was even correct, or if it would even offend him to be called such. Regardless, he did not seem to be around to hear it. More silence met her calls, and so she walked to the other set of doors. This time however, the handle did not budge. She was locked in.

 

Resigning herself to patience, she wandered to the settee and curled herself up on the cold leather surface. It was comfortable enough, especially compared to the table she’d woken upon. She felt bone-tired, her body aching deeply and her wounds still at a low-level scream. Her eyes wouldn’t stay open, and the cold of the room seeped more and more underneath her skin by the minute. She huddled into the fetal position, trying to maintain what heat she could. Kirsty wanted to lay herself down on the plush surface, just to rest for a while, but she was afraid of falling asleep again.

 

What if the Priest wasn’t equipped to retain his human memories for long? She had no clue how these monsters were meant to function. Channard, for all his human evils, became a grotesque mockery of his former self, made violent far beyond his natural capacity. His intelligent mind seemed dulled and broken. Even though she had managed to remind the Priest of his humanity, would time erode that remembrance?

 

When he finally did return, would he once more seek to harm her? Kirsty determinedly avoided looking back at the wall of tools behind her.

 

What of the other creatures that inhabited this vast, terrible world? Could _they_ get into this little disturbing sanctuary the Priest had left her in?

 

Kirsty was certain that sleep would be unwise. Compromising with herself, she turned to her side and rested her head against the back cushions, keeping her body otherwise upright and her gaze trained on the locked doors.

 

___

 

The loud thunk of a heavy door closing woke her.

 

A shot of panic slammed into her heart. Quickly, Kirsty brought her eyes to the doorway, her weak body tensed with the instinct to flee.

 

As looming and surreal as ever, the Priest had finally returned for her. He entered the room slowly, moving smooth as a ghost towards her, his eyes locked to hers.

 

“H..Hi,” she said, her shaking voice left her mouth at a vulnerable whisper.

 

He nodded at her in stoic, emotionless greeting. **“Kirsty.”**

 

She swallowed the lump in her throat. “Where am I? What...what are you going to do with me?” The words made her burn with a mixture of embarrassment and fear. She was at his mercy, and mercy did not seem a subject he was well-versed in.

 

He turned his gaze to the room and rested his arms behind the small of his back contemplatively, then began to slowly pace beside her settee. The move was strange, elegant and archaic to Kirsty, as if he were a gentleman in an old black and white film rather than a terrifying monster with a grid of pins in his head.

 

**“For now you are to stay here, in these rooms. Do not venture into the Labyrinth.”**

 

“...How long-”

 

**“Indefinitely.”**

 

The lump that was in her throat was now a dead weight in her gut. She sucked in a heavy breath. “You said that I could leave when the door opened again.”

 

**“Indeed. Yet it had been decades since the last summoning. Time is not on your side.”**

 

She felt hot tears well up in her eyes, and struggled to contain them. She looked away from him, hoping he would not notice.

 

 **“It is a waste.”** She knew what he meant. He was echoing his words to her from the last time he saw her cry. She looked at him cautiously from the side of her eyes. Perhaps he meant the words in jest, a sort of reply to her earlier joke about irony as she lay bleeding at his feet. Despite herself, she felt a little smile form on her lips as she wiped tears off her cheeks.

 

“Okay...but these rooms....is there no bathroom? No place to bathe? Or sleep? Where am I going to get food and water?”

 

He looked at the space beyond her, realization furrowing his brow. Then his eyes seemed lost to his surroundings, as if he was recalling foreign memories.

 

With a smooth wave of his hand, Kirsty was startled to hear stone grind against stone and the screech of moving furniture. She turned in her seat to see the source of the noise.

 

Behind her, where the wall of torture implements had once been, there was now a massive bed of that same ornately carved ebony. There were four swirling posters and a canopy with sharp little cathedral-esque spokes menacing the edging, and It was draped with dark curtains that were pulled back with cord. Upon it lay a thick duvet of elegant black brocade over charcoal cotton linens. It too was like something out of a medieval castle, totally untouched by time. Finally, where there once was bare space in the wall to it’s right, there was now another set of doors.

 

Gaping, she looked back to the Priest. He was waiting emotionless for her approval.

 

“Yeah. That’ll work,” she breathed.

 

Kirsty walked hesitantly past where he stood to go investigate the new room, careful to avoid the generous bubble of personal space she’d decided to afford him. Beyond the new set of doors, she found more archaic luxuries. At the center of the room set into the stone floor was an enormous bath, complete with steaming water filled to it’s brim. The majority of the back wall was a glassless window open to the night. It was like it had been carved from the stone, with two thick pillars breaking the space into three arches. Outside in the endless dark she could see a square section of the Labyrinth, as breathtaking as it was overwhelming and monstrous. The distance was too vast for anything to really see her in here, and the window’s isolated placement in the expanse offered no entrance from the outside. Thankfully, should she feel the need, a velvet curtain could be let down to provide more coverage from the outside world. At the foot of the window there was a small black leather bench, upon which sat a group of dark towels. In front of this bench beside the bath was a small brass tray with three glass bottles, likely containing soaps for washing.

 

Along the left wall she found a stone sink, and beside that in the privacy of a small alcove there was thankfully a toilet with proper plumbing, though it was perhaps more than several decades behind her era.

 

Suddenly there was nothing Kirsty wanted more than to submerge herself in that warm water, to pretend she was in some luxurious fantasy land rather than a gilded cage, absconded away in the depths of hell.

 

She wandered back to the doorway, looking for the Priest, who was watching her discoveries with quiet interest.

 

“I’m in a lot of pain.” She gestured down to the mess on her torso, then realized she’d still only been in her bra the entire time. She felt her face heat, but decided it wasn’t something worth fretting over at this point.

 

He returned the statement with a curious look, as if he did not entirely understand the purpose of the non-sequitur but something inside him was trying to work it out. Sheepishly Kirsty realized the absurdity of her statement in context of who she was speaking to. How could she express this kind of distress to a being who’s purpose was pain?

 

“I...don’t want to be. I want the pain to stop.”

 

That contemplative haze came over his black eyes again, as if he was perhaps recalling the distant, obscured concept of suffering as a negative experience. She gave him a moment but he remained silent, seemingly waiting for her to explain to him what exactly she needed.

 

“Do you have...medications or something that soothes pain? Can you conjure them up like you did all this?”

 

 **“It is beyond my understanding.”** This confused her, but perhaps he meant that the chemicals of modern medications were outside of his comprehension, and therefore outside of his capabilities to create. That picture of the soldier placed him from an era where such things surely existed, however. Considering the amount of quiet introspection he had been doing since he walked into the room, she wondered if his access to his human memories was still very limited, even if he recognized that indeed he once was human.

 

That might mean that his behavior since his revelation was running on emotion and instinct rather than direct human logic...which made him unpredictable. She stamped down on the little jolt of anxiety that shot through her chest at the thought.

 

Perhaps though, he might be able to work around his lack of modern knowledge. Kirsty tried to think of more rudimentary, ancient methods of pain relief. A soldier of his era would be familiar with opium. She might be able to spark that memory. Of course, with that came the inevitability of addiction, and maybe now that she thought about it, getting addicted to opium in hell was a very, very bad plan.

 

She could remember all those stories where willow bark tea would be used by ancient peoples and some modern cultures. Perhaps plant life would not be outside of his capabilities?

 

“Willow bark might work. Is it possible for you to get me willow bark?”

 

He seemed to give it some consideration. That thoughtful look came over him again, and she supposed that he might actually be recalling a memory of willow trees. Then he turned to an empty corner of the room between the front door and the door to the room where she woke before. He lifted a hand and gave a languid wave towards the corner. There was a small rumble and more grinding of stone, until Kirsty watched with awe as an actual willow tree began to grow up from between stones in the floor. It’s branches crawled up and up, intertwining themselves between the stones of the wall, then spreading vibrantly across the ceiling. Long green vine-like twigs began to droop down, creating a lush little fairy-tale oasis in the otherwise grey and foreboding room. It was beyond incredible. Looking at the silent Priest, it touched something in her frightened heart that a creature so monstrous could summon a thing so pure right from the ether like he just did.

 

“Thank you,” she breathed, and then wandered over to stand beside him before the tree.

 

Kirsty had no real clue how one was meant to harvest and prepare willow bark. She was going to have to improvise. Trial and error couldn’t hurt, right? Standing close to the trunk, she attempted to pick at it with her fingers. After some struggle, she managed only to break tiny crumbles off when her fingernails caught, which came with an equally unfortunate side-effect of abrading her soft fingertips and filling the underside of her nails with sharp little bits. She huffed in frustration, but then there was a gleaming, wicked blade reaching out in front of her face. She pulled her hands away quickly with a little gasp, until the Priest began to neatly slice a good sliver of bark with the knife and offered the piece to her. She realized with embarrassment that he was merely attempting to aid her.

 

Gratefully, she delicately took the offering from him, and he watched to see what she might do with the thing.

 

Kirsty herself really wasn’t sure what came next. Presumably she would brew it in hot water like tea leaves, but she had nothing handy, and felt awkward repeatedly asking so much from the Priest, who’s generosity and trustworthiness was still ambiguous.

 

Without further ado, she popped it into her mouth. The Priest’s brow furrowed.

 

The bark was gross and very hard to chew, but she supposed treating it like tobacco might at least give her the medicinal qualities she was after, even if it was unpleasant.*

 

“Would it be a problem to get my stitches wet?” It was a little hard to speak around the still rather dry chunk of bark.

 

He shook his head in the negative, still silent.** “Okay. I...I guess I’m going to take a bath now, and wash this blood off me.”

 

 **“Very well,”** he said, and then glided over to the desk she’d taken note of before, brushing his fingers against the papers.

 

That’s right. These were likely _his_ rooms, weren’t they? Did that mean they were going to _share?_ That lump came back to her throat. Kirsty retreated back to the privacy of the bathing chamber and closed the door behind her.

 

___

 

Kirsty stood alone before the bath, holding her arms around herself. The room was silent but for the cool winds of the dark land beyond her new arching windowscape. She moved to stand closer to the opening, her anxious curiosity getting the better of her.

Leaning into the gap, she could see the now-familiar landscape of endless dark blue-grey. If she looked far enough, she could see occasional shadowed creatures wander the halls like lurking wraiths. When Kirsty focused her hearing she could hear the faint echoes of unearthly noises, eerie and ambiguous to her mortal ears.

 

Remembering the skeletal dragon that flew off with the box, Kirsty considered that Hell might be inhabited by some creatures that could fly. Would something monstrous find it’s way into her little sanctuary? Unsettled, she pulled the silken rope binding the curtain, the fabric’s velvety sheen catching the firelight sumptuously as it fell and closed the window from prying eyes.

 

Not entirely satisfied, Kirsty accepted the cover that was available to her and turned back to the bath. The water still steamed, thankfully retaining it’s inviting heat.

She was going to have to take off the rest of her clothes.

 

Kirsty had been through quite a bit in the past 48 hours (god, had it only been that long?). Somehow, the prospect of removing her clothes to bathe in Hell while a monster lurked in the other room felt like an unbearable vulnerability.

 

Kirsty was no coward, however, and basic human needs were quickly becoming paramount. She was going to clean herself, the monsters be damned. So Kirsty grit her teeth and sat down on the bench, bending to unzip her boots. Ignoring her screaming side she stood once more, and painstakingly tried to unhook her bra. The attempt to bend her arms behind her back made her gasp violently at the shock of pain in her shoulder, so she quickly returned her arms to her sides for a moment. Could she do it? Should she even make the attempt?

 

There was no version of this where she was asking for _help,_ that was for damned sure.

 

A rock sat in the pit of her stomach and tears welled up in Kirsty’s eyes, because she knew she was going to have to force herself through the pain. She took a deep breath, held it, and reached back once more. The pull in her wound was excruciating and her shaking, clammy fingers lacked the familiar dexterity with which she normally managed this. Finally, the hooks came undone, and the fabric slackened on her chest. With a great whooshing exhale, she relaxed her body once more. It was nothing to slide the rest off her shoulders and drop the thing to the stone floor. She took a look at the wound, noting that a fresh, small trickle of blood had emerged, perhaps because she pulled the skin too harshly against the stitching. It had not truly reopened (she hoped), and the stitching remained intact, so she gave it no further thought.

 

Now all that was left were her jeans, damp with cold, browning blood and sticking to her upper thighs. Unbuttoning was simple enough, but sliding them off her hips made a high-pitched noise leave her throat involuntarily as she bent her abdomen, and thus agitated her second wound. She shot a look at the door, hoping he would not react to the noise and open it. Several seconds passed with no movement, and with a sigh of relief she let herself finish undressing.

 

Feeling both satisfied to be free of her disgusting clothes, and deeply vulnerable to be without them, Kirsty held her arms close to herself as she looked for a way to comfortably get her aching body into the hot water. At the side of the bath closest to the door there looked to be stone steps leading down into the water, so Kirsty padded her bared feet across the cold stone until she stood before them. With one anxious look to the door behind her, Kirsty readied herself to enter the water.

 

Dipping her foot under the surface, she found it to be pleasantly hot without scalding her toes. She walked herself further down, breaching the surface up to the top of her hip bones before stopping. She was going to have to submerge her wounds and the prospect sounded unpleasant. Once more she grit her teeth and got right to it, letting the terrible sting hit her and slowly pass. Relieved, she saw that the sides of her bath had smooth seats. She settled herself in, and finally Kirsty found herself relaxing.

 

\---

 

It was at least fifteen minutes into her bath by the time Kirsty could even think about the past forty-eight hours.

 

With a kind of distant surprise, she found that she was now unable to feel much of any sorrow over the violent loss of her father and her failure to retrieve him.

 

The idea of grieving again sounded absolutely exhausting, so she ignored the little burrowing hint of distress over her lack of response.

 

It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore, anyway.

 

Even now, she wasn’t feeling as much distress as she initially felt over her predicament. She was too tired, her nerves far too strung out. She would have to dig a little deeper into the Priest’s thoughts and motives before she could truly begin to trust his protection, but she could already see herself letting go of her fight.

 

Kirsty didn’t know what to think about that, either.

 

\---

 

Her body and hair freshly clean and her fingertips pruning, Kirsty felt like it might be time to emerge back into the...study? _Bedroom?_

 

She would call it the ‘Sanctuary’ for now. That seemed vague enough to fit.

 

Lifting herself up was still painful, but a touch easier now that her aching muscles had been soothed and her body was warm and clean. She wandered over to the bench and grabbed one of the large, fluffy towels, then began drying herself off. She spit the thoroughly chewed remainder of her willow bark out the window, spitefully hoping it landed on some unsuspecting monster.

 

Her skin grew slightly chill against the cool air, and she wrapped the lightly damp towel around her torso to ward some of it off. She looked down at the dirty, bloodstained pile of fabric she’d left on the floor. What else could she change into? Kirsty bit her lip and looked around the room, but beyond what she’d already taken stock of, it was empty.

 

She supposed that the generously large towel would cover her more than the bra did, though it certainly felt less protective than what she’d previously worn. If she needed to run, it wasn’t going to be sufficient.

 

Deciding she’d stalled herself enough, Kirsty tentatively made her way over to the door. Ever so slowly, she turned the ornate dark brass handle and peeked timidly out into the newly dubbed Sanctuary.

 

There was no sign of the Priest.

 

Thankfully finding the room empty, Kirsty opened the door further and discovered a long white nightgown laid upon the plush dark blanket. It was made of flowing opaque satin, cut snugly at the bust with an empire waist before cascading into generous amounts of lush fabric. Turning it around, She discovered a large bow which sat daintily on the back, long trains falling parallel with the skirts.

 

Turning her head towards the doorway, Kirsty braved swapping her towel for the decadent nightdress, frantically pulling it over her head and panicking when she found it a struggle. She didn’t want to be caught by the returning Priest half-trapped in the thing.

 

Thankfully it finally fell beautifully over her body, the cool, sensuous feel of it was a pleasantly surprising luxury. Silently, she thanked the Priest for his forethought.

 

Kirsty brought the discarded towel to her hair, drying off the still-damp ends. She wandered back into the bathroom and discarded her towel in a heap beside the archaic sink before turning a handle and cupping fresh, cool water into her hands to drink. She sipped slowly but deeply, relishing it. She hadn’t been thirsty exactly, but it had been an alarmingly long time since she’d drank anything.

 

That was when she heard the deep sound of the large front door shutting, and she realized he had returned. Feeling somewhat rejuvenated and less vulnerable, Kirsty moved back into the main room to meet him.

 

When she saw him, he was dropping a small stack of parchment onto his desk, seemingly distracted by his own thoughts until his dark eyes met her, once again impassible.

 

Unsettled by the new silence, Kirsty spoke. “...Thank you for...all this. For the nightgown.” She gestured awkwardly to the room and then herself.

 

He gave her a simple nod in acknowledgement, then approached slowly before standing a few feet before her. Unsettled by his direct attention, she held her arms to her chest and shifted on her feet where she stood.

 

**“Kirsty.”**

 

“...Yes?”

 

A slight frown thinned his lips; he seemed unsure of how to articulate something. She waited silently, anxious to know what was going to happen next. She leaned against the corner post at the foot of the bed for some kind of comfort, as if it’s support could shield her from any new threats.

 

 **“It was once my purpose to bring you a revelation,”** He said, and the implications distressed her. A revelation from his kind likely entailed explorations of physical suffering. She began to shake her head in refusal, backing away from him slowly. He calmly held up a hand to dissuade her panic, stood firm and did not pursue.

 

 **“...And yet, it was** **_you_ ** **who brought a revelation to me.”**

 

She frowned, startled at this turn to the conversation and unwilling to fully give over her trust, but she had stopped attempting to flee. She clenched her palms, looking for the right response.

 

She peered skeptically at him. “So? Explain how that changes things. Why shouldn’t you fulfill your ‘purpose’ anyway?”

 

Amusement seemed to radiate from his dark eyes. **“Mere hours ago, perhaps I would have suspected such words to be a challenge.”**

 

Kirsty cast a sharp, incriminating look his way, not interested in banter. “How can I trust you now when you went back on your word, once?”

 

His head tilted ever so slightly at her. **“Was it not you who chose to remain after I instructed you to leave?”**

 

She realized that he referred to the moment when Frank gave himself away, and the cenobites had come to collect. When the Priest told her that the proceeding violence would not be for her eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to move out of sheer terror. Had he interpreted this as acceptance, or even _interest?_ Was that why he had ‘such sights to show her’?

 

“I didn’t choose anything. I couldn’t move because I was too terrified,” She explained slowly, her voice soft. If whatever destroyed Channard’s mind had put this creature through the same process, then he’d lost all of his understanding of what it meant to be human. He was processing her behavior through a thankfully still logical mind that had been warped by an outside party. He could be reasoned with, and perhaps made to understand her, if given clearer information. “And for the record, I really did just come here because I thought I could find my father. I thought if Frank and Julia could come back, so could he.”

 

 **“Yet the box responds to desire. Do you refuse to acknowledge yours?”** His tone was not mocking, rather he seemed to be interested in her reasoning.

 

A breath of frustration left her. “I’m not hiding anything, or in denial, or playing ‘hard to get’ when I say I didn’t want anything remotely like this. If the box responds to any kind of desire at all, well then that leaves the door wide open for interpretation, doesn’t it? This...fucked up place and it’s creepy polygon in the sky seems to filter it all through a pretty narrow category.” She glared at him. “And what about you, huh? You had ‘desires’ too. You were curious, just like me. And you didn’t want what you actually found, did you? Not until it tore your mind up and _made_ you want it.” She softened her voice now, feeling for the man he used to be. “I know, because I _saw_ it. I dreamt you. That’s how I knew it was you in that photo.”

 

For a moment, it looked like he wanted to deny it, but instead he kept silent, perhaps sensing that there was truth to her words. He may not have all his memories, but if his past humanity was real, then it stood to reason that she could also be correct about this, too.

 

Or at least that’s what Kirsty hoped was going through his mind.

 

“You probably encounter a lot of men like Frank when you show up to collect, don’t you? Not so much with people like me and Tiffany, I bet.” Then her tone got softer, barely more than a whisper as she tried to peer behind his eyes. “...I wonder if you were like him, or like _me_?”

 

He had no response to her speculations. Kirsty turned to the bed, lifting the skirts of her nightgown so she could comfortably get her knees over top the bedspread. She sat herself in the middle of the bed, trying to find some comfort for herself in the surreal situation she’d now found herself in.

 

“Why didn’t Frank become like you?”

 

At this, the Priest sneered. **“He was unworthy of us. He consumed gluttonously, without regard for the desires of others. Thus he received the same. Now his torment will be deprivation.”**

 

It had a strange, convoluted form of logic to it, she supposed. These creatures may have experienced some kind of mental distortion somehow, but at least a few of them seemed to retain the capacity for constructing ethical foundations into their new states of being.

 

This did not make those foundations truly ethical in any real sense, but she was starting to see how it had been possible to negotiate with the Priest at all. Perhaps he did not realize just how much of his core humanity he truly retained.

 

Kirsty fidgeted, noticing a chipped, jagged nail on her ring finger. “It’s not exactly the same thing as what he did, but... when you came to get me, you didn’t really care much for my actual desires, only that I had them, and this was enough for the box to open for me. Like you had a job to perform, regardless of some whining mortal who regretted giving up their soul. You think he’s unworthy because he ignored the wants of others for his own gratification, but you were prepared to ignore mine so you could go on doing your job. Have you ever considered the hypocrisy in that?”

 

 **“...It is my purpose, to retrieve the souls who have irrevocably given themselves to Leviathan. You made your choice, and were deemed worthy for induction into the fold. Your fate was not to be the same.”** He looked away from her and began to slowly pace, and she wondered if even he recognised the sound of weakness in that response. It had a logic to it, in the way a cultist rationalized a toxic worldview.

 

She looked him dead in the eye. “Wasn’t it? You would have made me one of your kind even though I protested. I would have lost myself as thoroughly as you have. Would my choices even be my own anymore? Have _yours_ been?”

 

He stared vacantly into the right wall of the room, his hands resting behind his back again.

 

**“That...is unclear to me at this time.”**

 

He was silent now, and Kirsty knew she had won the philosophical debate. She hugged her knees to her chest, watching his stoic face as he slowly continued to implode psychologically.

 

What new thing had she made of him?

 

It was some minutes before he returned his gaze to her.

 

**“It seems, Kirsty, that we have many more revelations to explore together.”**

 

**___**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This is not how you prepare willow bark, and in fact you're meant to use very young willows rather than a matured tree. Kirsty doesn't know anything about it, and this is what I'd probably do in a pinch (before I researched the proper methods).
> 
> **Common doctor recommendation is that you should not get your stitches wet. It's believed that water could bring bacteria into the wound. When I looked it up, I found that there's evidence to suggest the science says it's actually fine and wont do that. I'm not a doctor by any stretch of the imagination, and this is a fanfiction that takes place in a surreal mystical hellscape where the laws of wounds and healing are very different. Please respect and trust your doctor's recommendations on the off-chance that the internet gave me fake news. :P
> 
> Also: Having "desire" and opening the lament configuration is not consent. I feel it's important for my fics to establish as strong and grounded ethical reasoning as possible when navigating the surreal, mythic, and figurative lore of the Hellraiser franchise. It may not be that literal, but in fics that have romantic elements, I think it's important that we take care to afford readers some clarity regardless.


	3. Power And Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kirsty spends her first night in Hell, and a sacrifice must be made to appease a dark god.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I uploaded! I'm slowly chipping away at Eden and Roses, but I'm getting there. I'm running my own business and that's been a very new experience for me, but I think I'm getting back into the swing of things. I won't be abandoning my stories, so no worries!
> 
> Warnings For This Chapter: This chapter includes someone being forced to harm themselves. So this is going to be a rather dark and difficult chapter. Things may not always be as they seem in this fic, however, so bear with me. 
> 
>  

 

 

**Chapter Three:**

**Power And Trust**

 

Kirsty's arms wobbled, struggling to bear her weight as she attempted to crawl beneath the covers of her strange new bed. She slid her legs downward until she lay fully against the soft sheets, reveling in the near-painful experience of her tired, aching muscles relaxing into the mattress. Clean, dark hair fanned out against the pillows, still damp with bathwater and giving her neck a chill, but she didn't much care. She ignored the grumble of her stomach too; the exhaustion in her body outweighed her hunger.

Beyond the foot board the Priest stood, silent as she settled herself in. She curled her fists into the thick covers, pulling them closer to herself to provide some protection however small.

How was she going to actually sleep like this?

"...Goodnight," her voice shook, wanting him to leave her be and feeling ridiculous for her efforts. Mere days ago, she would never even imagine a scene as uncanny as curling under bed covers and wishing the horrible monster that had tormented her a good night.

Thankfully he turned to the right in silence, and the torchlight dimmed as if he'd bidden it to do so. He glided around the side of the bed, headed for the right side of the room. For a terrible, surreal moment she believed he meant to join her under the covers, and she held back the hysterical noise which welled up in her throat at the absurd, distressing thought. He continued on towards the chained corner instead, leaving Kirsty bewildered.

The chains which hung there un-snarled, clinking against themselves to make room for the Priest. Then he moved to stand in that corner facing outward. He held his arms to his chest like a mummy, then the chains began to envelop him, slithering like a gleaming coil of snakes across his dark leather. Stoic as ever he stood there, held tight by his own bonds. He then closed his eyes, becoming an ominous, silent sentinel.

Enthralled to witness such a strange bedtime ritual, Kirsty couldn't help staring at him through the dark.

Listening to the low, very much  _inhuman_  rumble of the Priest's breathing, Kirsty wondered how she herself was to sleep with a monster looming in the dark corner of the room. Did he not understand how inappropriate and distressing these sleeping arrangements were? Why did he choose to make her new bed the centerpiece of these chambers, instead of a new room entirely? In so many ways, the apparent fact of this creature's buried humanity was as distant and unsolidified as whispered rumor.

Kirsty almost wondered if perhaps she'd been wrong.

What if he had  _lied?_

Her fingers dug into the dark covers as her heart rapidly jump-started back into survival mode. She'd taken an incredibly foolish gamble when she'd asserted that the man in her strange dream, and in that old picture, might have been this Priest. After all, where did that strange dream even come from? How could she have accidentally stumbled across a photo of that man so easily?

Had he perhaps used the same unknown methods Frank had used to connect to her mind in the mortal world, and sent her a carefully crafted illusion? An idea that was just enough to spark her sympathies, just enough to lower her defenses?

How did the eerie vagrant know to follow her long before she'd even laid eyes on the box at all? And wasn't it strange,  _beyond coincidental_  even, that Dr. Channard would not only be harboring occult documents and items of the very same nature as the cursed object that had destroyed her family, but be in possession of a photo of this monster's human past?

What did Kirsty truly know about  _anything_  that had happened thus far?

Channard hid what he was beneath a doctorate and respectable manners. Frank had literally worn her father's face to set her at ease, and had lured her into hell with essentially the same trick. It was entirely possible that she'd just stepped into one more trap, only it was this Priest that had finally been the one to successfully snap his jaws shut around her.

There was no way of knowing the truth just yet, but she'd keep her eyes on him in the meantime. For now, if he was lying to her he seemed intent on keeping up pretenses. The Priest may not be a man in the human sense, but she knew well enough that some men could say just about anything to make a conquest easier on themselves, and that some relished the game purely for itself. It wasn't so long ago that the Priest had let her run from him, told her she was free to explore the halls of this unforgiving realm because he had an eternity to get what he wanted.

Kirsty had to remember that she was dealing with a being who excelled at his craft. Her torments - if they were coming to her - were more likely to be artful and elaborate, rather than plain and simple and easy to predict.

Carefully so as not to catch his attention once more, Kirsty crawled to the side of the bed and pulled the rope that kept the curtain up. The black velvet fell sumptuously, blocking out the image of him entirely. She then did the same to the opposite side as well as the foot of the bed, until the fabric provided an enclosed private space and the appreciated illusion of safety.

She pulled the plush pillows around her and bundled under the warm covers until finally, she felt shielded enough to try sleeping. Eventually the anxiety stuck in her chest began to ebb away, and her body succumbed to it's exhaustion.

* * *

The sound of boots against the stone floor woke her. Kirsty sucked in a harsh breath and pitched forward, the violent aggravation of her wounds causing her to let out a small scream.

She hoped she wasn't doomed to repeat this unfortunate ritual of frightening herself awake.

No movement could be heard anymore. She suspected her scream must have caught his attention. Leaning over, Kirsty pulled aside the curtain at the foot of the bed. Peering through the small gap, she found him standing near his desk, looking back at her expressionless.

"Sorry," she breathed. Mindful of her wounds, she began pulling back the bed curtain to her left side, tying it once more to it's post. The movements were a struggle against all her aches and pains, her brow furrowing with the exertion. As if in response, the remaining curtains began to lift and tie themselves to the posts, causing Kirsty to quickly pull her hands away, not wanting to come in contact with his magic.

" **You are awake,"**  he said evenly, stating a fact.

"...Yeah." She crawled out of bed and felt the chill of the room seep into her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself to hold in the warmth, the stone beneath her bare feet ice-cold as she slowly wandered over to the settee. Carefully, she lowered herself into it.

Kirsty was quiet for a time, and the Priest seemed to be giving her the space to adjust to wakefulness. She looked up at him, noting that he was still silently regarding her. She cleared her throat to diffuse the silence.

"'Morning."

He didn't respond in kind. There was no such thing as morning here.

"I um...is there something that I could eat?" She felt like she was beginning to starve.

He waved a hand at the small table before her. A tray appeared laden with fruit, english scones, and a steaming pot of tea along with it's accompanying set. The china was a medium grey, the edges adorned with elegant silver gilding.

She looked up at him. "Thank you," she murmured, happy to see the offering but still wary of his motives. Thinking about the tea for a moment, she lifted her achy body out of her seat, grabbing a silver butter knife as she did, then made for the willow tree. This time, she tore some bark off with the blunt cutlery, struggling less than she first had. Then she returned to her seat, placing her slice of bark into a cup and then pouring the hot tea over it. The Priest watched all of this with quiet interest.

There were several little pots next to her tea cup, each with lids concealing their contents. Curious, she lifted the closest pot. This one was filled with little cubes of sugar. She plopped two into her tea and let them dissolve next to the steeping piece of bark. The next pot was a little larger, and she was delighted to discover it contained what looked to be clotted cream. Kirsty only had scones and clotted cream with jam once before, when Julia had attempted some baking early in her relationship with her father. Needless to say, Julia's version left much to be desired, and Kirsty found herself interested in what a good batch truly tasted like.

She opened the last pot and found the jam. It was a dark purple, possibly grape. She lifted a warm scone from the selection and placed it on her saucer, slicing it in half to reveal the hot, fluffy center. She dipped into the jam and spread it across both halves, then wiped her knife and repeated the ritual with the cream. Her mouth watered as she lifted one half to her mouth and took a delicious bite, enjoying the flaky crust on her tongue. The jam was a burst of bright, tart sweetness -  _blackberry!_  - that was gentled by the smooth, mellow cream. It was so much better than last time, the difference almost unbelievable. Was it because he conjured them up from the ether? Perhaps there was only sinful food to be found in Hell. She let out a tiny moan at the small joy of her breakfast, then brought her eyes back to the Priest as she chewed. He had been watching her intently, still expressionless as ever, but she thought she caught the glimmer of interest in his eyes. Did he even need to eat, as humans did?

Kirsty removed the bark from her teacup and swirled the spoon, distributing the liquified sugar evenly. She took a quick sip of her warm tea, which was just as delicious as the scone, and then placed it back on the saucer.

"Did you want some? I could pour you a cup?" She offered, unsure why he was staring and a little discomforted at the idea of sharing his company for the meal.

" **No thank you."**

"Okay." She returned her gaze to her cup, sipping quietly.

" **When you have finished, you must accompany me outside my chambers."**

She put her tea down and looked at him in confusion. "I thought you said I couldn't leave here?"

" **Correct, and that is why you must come. I will present you to the council, and make it known that you are free to wander unscathed."**

Kirsty wasn't sure she was ready to leave the 'Sanctuary.' She didn't want to meet more monsters. She wanted to hide away forever in here, at least until she could go back to her own world again.

"Fine," she said, choosing to go along with it rather than complain. She was wary of sparking his ire, unpredictable as he was, and if he was truly on her side he likely knew better what needed to be done here than she did. She would endure it if it meant more assured safety.

She took another bite of scone, then looked down at herself. Her white nightgown had unfortunately been stained with a little blood during her sleep.

"What am I going to wear?"

He seemed confused. " **Does the gown not suffice?"**

"It's beautiful, but I've been sleeping in it. Its a nightgown. And I got it all bloody…"

He did not react, as if these facts did not make any difference in his mind. She supposed it wouldn't, glancing at the bloody sections of flesh on his chest. Nevertheless, with another wave of his hand a new white gown appeared laid out upon her bed. At that, he turned away and lifted a paper from his desk, reading silently where he stood.

Feeling dismissed, Kirsty quickly finished her breakfast, then padded back to the bed, grabbing the gown on her way to wash up in her new bathroom.

* * *

The new dress was just as lovely as the last. This one flowed comfortably, but perhaps looked a touch less like a nightgown than the other one. It was mostly satin, but the bust was layered with a delicate sheer floral lace and had tiny buttons that ran down the center. The cut at the waist was structured to hug her curves flatteringly, then flare out into a full A-line skirt. Now that she considered it, both of her dresses seemed versatile enough to be considered day-dress and nightgown, if one was particularly archaic and high-class about their comfortable clothing. It was as if the Priest truly didn't know the difference, and in his ignorance an amalgamation of design had manifested in the conjuring of her clothing.

Before they left the chamber, he'd conjured her matching shoes of the same satin. They looked like something from long before her era and had kitten heels, comfortably low but still clicking prettily against the stone as she walked silently beside him.

He was just as quiet as he led her down the winding hallways. She tried to remember the directions they'd been taking, but she lost track some time ago and chose instead to deliberately get lost in thought.

She had to wonder at the specific way he was dressing her. Beautiful as the gowns were, they were so starkly different than the dark leather he and his kind wore, and it was strange that he'd choose something so outside of his familiar aesthetics to dress her with. She stood out far too much against the bleak shadows of Hell, the dim light gleaming off of her as if she herself emitted it. Did he just prefer to dress her this way? The idea that he was presumptuously enjoying himself - as if she was a doll for his amusement - was unsettling, and it made her want to march straight back to her bathroom and shove her dirty old clothes on again.

She kept her mouth tightly shut, and her eyes away from him. Kirsty had always been headstrong, but it would be foolish to provoke him when his good graces were the only thing standing between her and violent annihilation.

Eventually they came upon a room that was so cavernous and dark that it's distant ceiling and walls were hidden in total shadow - if it even had either. Kirsty suspected it was indeed a room, because there seemed to be only a single spot of light from the sky that zeroed upon an immense obelisk. The thing towered impossibly high from what she presumed was the center of the space, gleaming in hues of sickly grey-blue and smattered with rusty brown. She kept her eyes away.

There were many cenobites here, illuminated by torches which surrounded the room's ominous centerpiece. Interspersed with the cenobites were many creatures even less humanoid, possibly of species unrecognizable to Kirsty. All of them stared openly at her as the two of them proceeded through the room. It was a vicious kaleidoscope of pale and mutilated faces, the glistening red of bared tissue, and the gleam of snarling subhuman teeth and exposed bone. She refused to focus her eyes upon any of it, preferring instead to watch her skirts billow as they walked. Kirsty could sense the creature's movement, their metal accoutrements clinking lightly as they parted like water for their imperious leader.

Whispers swirled up from the congregation. Harsh voices as inhumanly mangled as the flesh upon their bodies filled the dark room with the menacing hiss of a snake pit. In her peripheral vision she could see the silhouette of the massive stone obelisk before them, but Kirsty still kept her gaze to the floor, and could not make out any detail without a direct view.

Suddenly, the familiar sound of infernal bells - the ones which had announced the presence of the cenobites to her so long ago - rang throughout the chamber. Startled, Kirsty glanced up at the Priest, who had not reacted. Had he set them off? The noise, much more resonant in Hell, was something unholy. Her body instinctively rejected the sound, shivered and recoiled from the vibrations as if they were nails upon a chalkboard. They tolled several more times, until blessedly they silenced.

It was then that he stepped up onto a raised stone platform before them. Kirsty stopped in her tracks, unsure of what would come next and waiting for further instruction. Hesitantly she raised her gaze to the Priest, still avoiding the others and unwilling to catch inadvertent glimpses.

He was holding out a pale hand to her, waiting silently for her to join him upon the platform as though he were a gentleman from a bygone era rather than a hideous, violent monster.

All was now very quiet. Kirsty could sense the full attention of the other creatures as they watched the peculiar behavior of their leader, attention which deeply unsettled her. She wanted to run from the room but knew better.

" **Come, Kirsty,"**  he said, still holding out his hand. His tone was soft in comparison to the ways in which he'd spoken to her in the past, but he was probably incapable of truly speaking in a way that was not frightening.

He was thankfully patient with her, expressionless as he waited for her to accept his help stepping up. She had a choice to make.

And so Kirsty made the decision to be bold once again, and took his hand. It was the first time she'd willingly touched him, and the feeling was deeply strange. His hand was warm like the living, when she expected it to be corpse-cold. Despite his pallor and the impossibility of his eternal wounds, he was still some form of living, breathing  _thing._  These creatures were indeed alive in a sense, and she did not know if that was a relief or if it only horrified her more.

Something in her stomach flipped and whirled as he held her hand firmly, and so Kirsty quickly stepped upon the platform to keep from recoiling from the feeling. Thankfully he let her go then, and turned away from her to stand behind a massive stone table that was set before the obelisk. The design upon the front side was discolored with old stains which Kirsty was absolutely sure was blood. Etched into this table were grooves that swirled in unrecognizable runes and lines, which mirrored the design upon massive obelisk. These designs however were carved into a specific, familiar shape: that of the malevolent spinning diamond which hovered above the endless labyrinth.

Moving to stand beside the Priest (at a comfortable distance), she met his gaze with wide, wary eyes.

" **Observe."** He broke their eye-contact and returned to whatever task he'd been intent on before she'd stopped following. Kirsty watched quietly as he lifted a razor-thin blade from the belt of tools at his side, then swiftly sliced his own palm open with smooth, practiced ease. He let the dark blood well up and pour into the center of the table's etchings, an act which Kirsty quickly identified as some kind of religious ritual. Her stomach turned a little as she watched the deep red liquid fill out the grooves, but this was hardly the worst sight he'd ever shown her. Then the blood that was once gushing from his wound seemed to somehow stop in an instant, and she wondered if perhaps he'd willed it to do so.

The dark blood traveled through the grooves upon the table, only to be impossibly mirrored onto the etched image of the monstrous sky-shape, the blood trickling into the finer lines and darkly illuminating the swirl of ancient runes as if the liquid had transported there. The unreadable text seemed to absorb the blood, or  _maybe drink it,_  she thought, watching it glow.

" **A tithe to Leviathan,"** she heard him explain, and so she returned her gaze to him.

"Okay." She didn't much care about his sick religious observations, she just wanted to get this ordeal over with so she could return to her -  _their_  - rooms.

" **In offering of our flesh, we honor Leviathan for Its continued indulgence."**

Kirsty did not respond to his grotesque statement, guessing that he meant to continue.

" **You must engage in the ritual."**

Kirsty balked. "Absolutely fucking not," she spit as she took a step back from him and the revolting altar, narrowly avoiding tripping off the platform.

" **You** _ **must,"**_  he insisted, his tone now commanding. " **Do not test my patience, child. For your continued harbor in this realm, you will submit yourself to Leviathan's authority. I have indulged your willful nature because it has amused me to do so, but do you think the God of this world will give you mercy for your disobedience?"**

He held out his hand to her once more, still allowing her the choice to come to him, but this time the motion lacked the softer beckoning from before. She looked at his pale, monstrous hand like it was a snake, ready to snap out and grab at her.

In that moment, Kirsty very seriously considered running from the room. He had played at humanity, but obviously his mercy only extended as far as his patience did, and that was by his own admission.

He  _was_  a liar, wasn't he? He would force her to offer herself up to the biggest threat here. Who knows what giving her blood to that effigy might mean? Would she be bound to this realm forever, like Frank and Julia seemed to be? Was that all part of the plan?

She would have to tread very, very carefully. If she managed to run from him now, what would the whispering crowd of mutilated creatures do to her once she fled from their Priest? If she stayed with him instead and said the wrong thing, would that patience of his finally wear too thin?

She swallowed down her fear. She couldn't just hand herself over. If nothing else, Kirsty was clever, and that had gotten her pretty far up till now.

"Will it bind me under it's power?" Her tone was as neutral as possible.

His head tilted ever so slightly, and she wondered if he was actually confused by her statement. His expressions remained alien to her as ever.

" **The offering is a gesture of submission; it cannot bind you further than you have already become by your own doing."**

That could very well be a lie, and it posed a more frightening question. Just how bound to this world was she, exactly?

Kirsty said nothing, still frightened and suspicious of his motives, and very much aware of the many eyes watching them both. She fidgeted in place, unwilling to budge.

"Why should I believe you?" Her words were a tiny, rebellious whisper, said for his ears alone, nearly devoid of the bravado she'd been challenging him with in the past few days.

He was silent for a moment, his gaze unmoving. Kirsty was certain then that she'd offended him, and thus finally provoked his wrath. She felt her body start to shake with tiny tremors. It took a great deal of self-control to keep her terror from showing in her face, but then he briefly glance lower, witnessing her shivering. He knew she was afraid.

The Priest brought his eyes back to hers. " **Are my actions not sufficient evidence?"** The words were spoken slowly and chosen very carefully, dangerous as they still were.

His response was unexpected, and it surprised her. Relief and hope surged violently, emotions which she quashed immediately lest he discover her moment of weakness. He could not manipulate her. She was resolved to see through his lies. Kirsty would manipulate him right back if that's what it took to survive in this place.

Still, she did not want to bleed for him or his god. But what other choice did she have left?

That was when harsh, guttural sounds began to fill the massive chamber. The noise captured her attention, her eyes desperately searching out the source. Beyond the crowd, she saw movement above and behind them all, as if there was indeed a far wall there and something big crawled upon it. Her shaking returned, but this time she shifted slightly closer to the Priest. He himself did not move, and made no attempt to calm her.

She could hear several large thumps and the skittering of claws upon the stone, and so she assumed the things had perhaps dropped to the floor and were making their way closer.

The congregation of cenobites did not flinch, nor flee. Whatever was coming was a normal occurrence in this place.

In the dim torchlight, warped faces began to emerge from the inky pitch. They were familiar looking, with bulbous, jaundiced cat-eyes and dense square jawlines. Crawling like scorpions, the creatures were soon fully illuminated and began to invade the still unaffected crowd. Their skin was wrinkled, loose and raw, and it glistened with sweat, or perhaps excreted some kind of mucous. Twisted, worm-like bodies squirmed forward on thin, spindly limbs, sharp, threatening tails curved up and inwards. Pointed teeth gnashed and dripped with viscous spittle that hissed from their mouths with every harsh breath they took. The foremost creature bellowed terrible guttural noises in the direction of the pulpit, and Kirsty could not discern rage from hunger in it's behavior. The other's of it's kind made occasional noises themselves, sometimes to snarl at cenobites who were in the way, other times seemingly just at random.

This continued until the individual at the front of the group stopped before the platform, looking up at the Priest - and herself - with menace. Everyone else went silent, and this creature began to bellow more throaty, snarling sounds at the Priest. Kirsty looked up at him, reading nothing in his expression as he watched the creature spit noises in his direction.

" **You overstep yourself,** _ **worm."**_

The words were spoken by a cenobite standing to the creature's left. His head and torso were bare, and entirely covered with glyphs which had been carved into his skin. He wore skirts similar to his cohorts, with a thick band that cinched to his waist. He was rather old looking; Kirsty suspected that he'd been at least nearing his seventies when he was transformed.

The disgusting creature turned it's rage towards this other cenobite, drool splattering across the floor as it ejected more ugly noises in the cenobite's direction.

Another cenobite stepped forward, a female this time. Her skin was artfully sewn in patches across her face and body, a quilt of dark umber with undertones of ashen blue. Her clothes were similarly patchworked, and upon her head were shining hooks and rings which connected a cascade of braided leather dreadlocks to her scalp. " **Cease your howling and allow our Priest to address the matter. Perhaps then, you might find the explanations you seek."**  Her voice was husky; dark and mellow like fine liquor.

Apparently, the cenobites understood this creature's words, if they could be considered such.

The thing's mouth still frothed, it's unhinged rage unbroken by sensible arguments.

While the Priest had been silent up till now, Kirsty noted that he did not look effected by the threatening outburst, or the questioning of his authority that outburst surely entailed. Kirsty had known perfectly good and kind human men with far less less self-control when challenged in such a way. As terrifying as her surroundings were, she was caught off-guard by how uneasy his lack of response made her feel.

" **I will not entertain more insolence."**

The Priest's voice was loud as the crack of thunder, yet it had no inflection of anger at all. Even still, the words were a viper which snapped out at the crowd below, casting utter silence throughout.

He waited, allowing the silence to settle. Kirsty could hear harsh, wet breathing rattle amongst the monsters, and a smattering of small hisses and the rasping rush of air through torn mouths, slobbering teeth and lacerated lungs. She tried to tune them out, but that only made her focus upon the Priest and his own breathing, which was so close that she could hear that same low, inhuman rumble she'd noticed last night. His lungs may be unmaimed, but he was no less a demon. She held her arms closer to herself.

Finally, it seemed that he'd deemed the congregation worthy of his address. " **You have been gathered here so that several recent events may be brought to the attention of the council."**  He paused, letting the information sink in.

" **As you are no doubt aware, three summonings occurred in a row. All of them were connected, and were suspicious in nature. This issue is being investigated. No detailed information on the matter shall be disclosed."** Snarls lashed out at this statement, but quickly quieted at a simple look thrown their way.

" **It should be known that The One That Grins and The Devourer have fallen. Their remains are to be cast into the Wailing Pit upon the next gathering. The Sister's condition is critical, and thus she remains under The Seamstress' watch until further notice."** The patchworked female nodded, and Kirsty guessed that she might be this Seamstress.

Several eyes had slowly gravitated towards Kirsty as he spoke. She kept hers out of direct contact with anyone else's.

" **Two of the recent summonings involved uninitiated souls; one was a sacrificial lamb for the desires of another. The other, who you see before you now, found the box in the hands of the earliest summoner, and had undergone no trial of discovery."**

Kirsty clenched her teeth.

" **Therefore she will receive an unorthodox initiation."**

 _What?!_ Kirsty whipped her head around to face him directly. He looked at her, and she heard a surge of anger and confusion murmur up from the congregation.

" **All souls capable of opening the configuration belong to Leviathan. What have you deemed insufficient in this girl's case that makes her unworthy of us, and of the Deprivation?"**  It was the old male again. His words belied his skepticism, but were careful not to challenge.

The Priest regarded the old cenobite carefully. " **Unknown forces conspire against our ways even as we speak, that much has been learned from this venture."**  He went silent for a moment, surveying the crowd. " **There are those who in their arrogance would dare to break our sacred laws to obtain what they seek, and they should have no doubt that order will most assuredly be restored."**  He cast a withering glare across the congregation, giving no group any quarter.

Kirsty wondered at this last statement. Did he think any of them were involved in what happened to her family? How could that be possible?

For that matter, the Priest spoke as if he fully believed in the ways of the cenobites still. Was that true, or was it a smokescreen to avoid censure?

He brought his gaze back to the old one, returning to the question. " **She shall be offered here what the actions of blasphemers denied her previously. In this, we shall set to rights their acts of sacrilege. Afterward she will undergo the Holy Conversion, as is her natural right."**

The old one nodded silently, satisfied by his Priest's reason.

" **Prove it."**

The words were said by another cenobite, who had previously been hidden from Kirsty's view. Like the others, his face was devoid of emotion, but it felt like there was something very cruel and amused in his gaze. Like a schoolyard bully. There were several sharp little hooks through the bridge of his nose and the ridges where his brows would be, all of which accentuated the idea that a cruel smirk was painted upon his bloodless face. Small pyramid-shaped studs decorated his head, forming two stripes stretching to the back of his neck. Between and on either side of these stripes were long gashes, exposing red meat in parallel.

Kirsty did not like him, which was certainly saying something when it came to the beings in this room.

" **And what would you have proven, Scourger?"** The Priest was clearly unamused by this challenge.

The Scourger came forward, moving to the front of the crowd.

" **It has been suggested that our Priest cut down a newly made cenobite, and the pieces left have already been cast into the Pit without witness."** He looked back at the crowd, which murmured in response. Snarls began to fill the room as the wormlike creatures bickered amongst themselves over this salacious news. " **Is this not blasphemy? If this mortal is worthy of our**   _ **mercy**_ **, should she not be made to prove it? Even now, she has brazenly refused to give tithe to our god."**

He stressed the word mercy as if it were a sin, one which the Priest had openly committed.

The Priest went silent for too long a time, even Kirsty knew. She stared up at him, searching for any sign of anger or weakness that might condemn her to the hungry sharks below. Frightened and angry on her own behalf, she turned her gaze back to the Scourger.

Her hackles up, Kirsty moved to snap at the male, vicious words ready on her tongue. Abruptly, before she could speak, the Priest's hand shot out and grasped her shoulder tight in warning. Hot sparks ran through her from the point of contact, and she nearly reared back away from him. It was the second time he'd moved to touch her.

Kirsty glared at the Priest and he stared her down, totally unmoved by her bravado.

Hot, angry tears welled up. He wasn't going to protect her. She turned her face from him, closing him off completely.

Uncaring, the Priest looked to the Scourger once more. " **Such rumors are correct. I indeed cut down a new cenobite."** The room broke out into whispers. The Priest seemed to smirk down at Scourger, confident even in scandal. Scourger seemed to deflate a little beneath his eyes. " **This creature was the abomination at the heart of this conspiracy. It was culled after it threatened my Gash. As for our guest, I alone will cast judgment upon her behavior."**

This seemed to be the last straw. The snarling creatures broke out into more grotesque yowling, spitting and gnashing teeth as they protested. Cenobites hissed and spoke amongst themselves, confused by their Priest's behavior.

" **Such preferential treatment,"**  murmured The Seamstress, her husky voice fluttering past the chaos. " **One wonders at your intentions."**

The Priest's eyes were back on Kirsty, and he looked contemplative. " **She is an intriguing creature. Desire capable of summoning us, yet she is unlike most of the souls that have passed through our doors, which I credit to her unique circumstances. I am fascinated by the possibilities she represents."**

The Scourger really did sneer this time. " **And are we to forsake our sacred methods because our Priest is** _ **fascinated?**_ "

" **I have indulged your impertinence long enough, Scourger. You are the youngest of us, and still lack much discipline, which I assure you I am willing to provide."**

The Scourger went quiet.

It was another cenobite, this one with a large sawblade imbedded into his skull like a mohawk, who spoke next.

" **Then provide it. Discipline the girl."**

The Priest's expression grew harder. To the congregation, he must have wore the same cenobitic calm that was familiar to them. But Kirsty could almost feel the tension radiating from him now. She swallowed, and felt her muscles and tendons become as taut as a stretched rubber band, ready to snap.

" **My intention has always been to do so."**

The words were not defensive, or soft. They betrayed no weaknesses. They boomed across the quieting expanse with the solid weight of truth and inevitability.

The statement was met with the anticipatory silence of a mob waiting with baited breath before a guillotine.

Kirsty felt fresh tears spill down her cheeks.

She couldn't look at him. She knew he was going to demand something awful from her now, and there was nowhere to run, or hide. She wished, desperately, that she knew how to make herself numb.

" **Come, Kirsty."**

Listlessly, she moved toward him, a ghost in her own body. Hesitant, she lifted her eyes to his, staring into a soulless, empty black. He was looking down at her remorselessly. If he regretted this, he gave no indication.

" **For your disobedience, your tithe will be to spill blood from the wound which had been sewn for you."**

He unhooked a wicked blade from his belt, and moved it towards her. She flinched away from it, expecting violence, but the handle was turned for her to take it.

He wanted her to maim herself for Leviathan.

Silently weeping, Kirsty took the blade into her shaking hands. It was a surprisingly heavy thing, which looked and felt far larger in her feminine hands than it had in his.

She shifted on leaden feet towards the offering table. Standing before it's ruddy surface, Kirsty found herself at a loss for where to begin. How could someone slice themselves open? She leaned her torso forward, then aimed the blade towards her soft stomach.

That was where her movements stopped.

With every fiber of her being, Kristy hated the Priest. The feeling seemed to seep from her chest, pumping through hot blood into her every limb. She wondered if her hate would spill out, just as red and vicious as the blood that would soon feed the hungry, abominable stone waiting beneath her.

Breathing harshly past the tears, her knuckles went white against the blackened hide of the blade's hilt, but no matter how much she tried to force it, she could not bring herself to fulfill the terrible task which was required of her.

A pale hand crept from behind her suddenly, and she felt her body jolt. Then that hand grasped her own softly, and another was pressed against the small of her back.

"What are you doing?" She hissed, trembling against the monster's unwelcome touch. He said nothing, but pushed her delicately forward until the blade's edge was pressed against her abdominal wound through her silken dress. " _Please,"_  she whispered, desperate not to proceed. His hand upon her own became firmer, but did not yet move.

" **Continue,"**  He murmured beside her ear, the dark rumble of his voice making her shake harder. His warm hand flattened against her back, providing a stable but inescapable wall behind her.

She lifted her eyes to the watching crowd. Most were expressionless as always, but all seemed expectant. Scourger leered at her like a voyeur.

" _I can't,"_ she whispered again.

" **You will,"**  was all he said, but still he did not move.

She hesitated for another moment. Taking a deep breath to find her courage, Kirsty began to press the blade harder to herself. She had never broken skin like this before, let alone through stitches, and wasn't sure she even had the hand strength to succeed. She did not have to concern herself for long however, because soon after his grip moved with her, far more sure and steady.

And then the blade was snapping threads, and she could feel the cold metal against raw meat. She whimpered, gritting the scream back behind her teeth. Blood, too much of it for comfort, began to drip from the white of her dress down onto the slab, which glowed as it drank. She knew that more light emanated from the obelisk behind her, mirroring the sacrifice. He then removed the blade from her, keeping his steady hand at her back as her life poured out.

The creatures began to snarl and bellow, disgustingly triumphant at the show before them. Kirsty wanted to hide.

For what felt like eternity, The Priest held her there, silent as the grave, until finally she felt her eyelids begin to droop. The Priest then seemed to decide this was enough and pulled her back. Once again he was lifting her into his arms.

" **That will be all."** The statement was final, and signaled the closing of the infernal council meeting. He stepped down from the pulpit, and the cenobites and other creatures parted easily as he made his way back towards the doors with the human girl's still bleeding body draped in front of him.

The halls were empty as he took the winding path back towards his chambers. Kirsty said nothing, still crying silently. The Priest also did not speak as he walked, but his pace was considerably more rapid than she'd previously seen him use.

* * *

After far too long, they were finally back within the protection of the Sanctuary. He took a left towards what Kirsty recalled was a kind of dining room, and the door swung magically open so he could pass the threshold. As they entered, the sconces within the dark room flared to life, illuminating it as best as fire could.

He laid her body down across the freshly clean black marble. Kirsty watched him silently, her tears beginning to dry, as he tore the ruined slash of her dress further away from the place of her wound.

Quickly, he began to remove the old thread from her flesh, making her gasp and cry out. Once she was cleaned of the useless stitches, he pulled a fresh set of thread and needle from a small compartment at his tool belt and began to just as rapidly pierce through her wound, sewing her back up again. Her gasps became small screams, and her drying tears turned into a new round of open sobbing.

Finally he finished the task, only to walk back out of the room, still silent. Kirsty continued to sob brokenly, now utterly alone and abandoned.

It was not long until he returned, this time with a wet towel from her bathroom. He placed it at the head of the table, then began to lift Kirsty up to a sitting position, and pulled her from the table to stand on shaky legs.

The Priest's fingers moved to her ruined gown, ever so lightly pulling at her sleeve. " **This must be removed."**  She knew that he meant to take the dress off of her himself.

Kirsty flinched. " _Don't."_ She wondered why he even cared that her dress was ripped and bloody, considering he didn't even see the difference earlier.

Accepting her refusal silently, he instead ripped the fabric further, causing her to gasp again. The new tear exposed the entirety of her midriff and separated the dress into two parts. Kirsty immediately took the slipping skirts from his hand, keeping them at her waist. The top half of the tattered cloth retained her modesty, the torn end just hitting the bottom of her ribcage.

"You didn't give me anything to wear under my dress," she whispered, feeling small and fragile.

" **The problem will be solved,"** was all he said, and began to swiftly tie the top of the skirts into a more secure knot for her. He then ran the warm, wet towel against her exposed skin, cleaning the blood from her body.

Kirsty didn't know what to think. She stared at him, but he gave nothing away.

Once she was clean again, he took a new nightgown from the table which she never saw him place. Realizing that he meant to dress her somehow, she interrupted: "I need bandages."

He looked at her, silent.

"Bandages will help prevent more blood loss," she clarified.

He hesitated a moment, looking to the far wall, and then a roll of gauze appeared upon the table. He took it, considering the object. As if recalling a distant but familiar concept, he began wrapping her torso. His work was as skilled and secure as any practiced professional, she noted.

" **The shoulder?"** He looked at her.

Kirsty hesitated. The only way he could really access that would be to remove the tattered top. But she knew it needed to be done. The wound wasn't bleeding now, but the edges were able to brush freely against her dress and irritate her skin. She could feel the thing swelling and getting inflamed.

Carefully, she turned around and lifted it above her head, then dropped it to the table, leaving her back completely bare to him.

Silently he wrapped the bandages around her, passing the gauze across her sides and her sternum. Heat rose to her face at the feeling of cool air against her chest. He may not be able to see anything from where he stood, but his careful placements avoided delicate areas just the same. Something about his awareness of her body embarrassed her.

When he was finished he grasped her new gown once more, and once she lifted her arms he let the soft fabric of her third dress fall against her body, returning her modesty to her. Before the skirts could fall, he tugged at the knot he had made in the tattered remnants of the previous gown, which fell easily and simultaneously with the fresh skirts.

Kirsty turned around to face him again, looking up at him quietly.

Curiously, he chose to once more lift her. Taking her back into the main room, he actually laid her down upon her bed, which was thankfully still unmade so shifting the covers was unnecessary.

She stared at him even more, incredulous and no longer weeping.

Instead, Kirsty found herself growing intensely angry, the sense of hopelessness and vulnerability ebbing rapidly away, replaced by a fresh wave of rage and betrayal.

"Well aren't you going to fucking tuck me in?"

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!


End file.
